


Living in this Greyscale World

by Darke_Eco_Freak



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Noir
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Colour Blind Peter, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, mentions of domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-12 15:18:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17470046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darke_Eco_Freak/pseuds/Darke_Eco_Freak
Summary: New York City in the 30's ain't the greatest place to live. The economy's in shambles and crime'n corruption are swinging hand in hand together. There's fascism on the rise and chumps who just wanna stick their heads in the sand and pretend none of it exists. Being a vigilante in this town ain't easy, and it ain't pretty, but somebody's gotta do it. Somebody has to.





	1. Black, White and all the Grey in between

**Author's Note:**

> I have not watched Spiderverse yet but their Noir made me interested in the comic Noir, and wow, it's really wow, ouch. [White haired Peter is based on art by dopingues](http://dopingues.tumblr.com/post/181739329160/ok-listen-i-know-its-canon-that-noirs-hair-is) who gave me permission to use him in fic.

The ribs will bruise, moulted grey-black if he’s  _lucky_. For now, he’ll take a warm bed, though his bed hasn’t been warm in a long time. Fine, he’ll take a  _dry_  bed.

Outside it’s really coming down. The whole city’s gone silver with rain, slick and cold, ice chips splatting hard and fast. There’s a gang meet up he wanted to stake out but there’s no chance in this mess, the rooves are slicker than trout in the river, and Peter doesn’t think crime pays well enough for anyone to go out tonight.

And hell, if  ** _Spiderman_**  can’t hold onto a gutter without falling off and cracking his ribs, then who can? Peter scoffs, because yeah,  _Spiderman_.  Spiderman’s nothing but a guy in a crummy apartment, curled up on a crummy bed, and staring out his crummy window.

The raindrops go plop-plop- _splat_  and Peter’s ribs ache right in time with them. Getting decked by one of those fascist chumps earlier probably had something to do with falling off the roof. His head’s still woozy and his balance is off, but he’s worked with worse. A little concussion and cracked bones shouldn’t lay him out like this.

Plop-plop- _splat!_

Then again, the rain’s cold and spiders don’t do so good with cold. Peter can feel the chill settling in, freezing up his aching muscles and locking his bones in place. It's a chore to roll over so his back's off the cold wall, not that it does much good, the whole room's a meat locker. Peter scoffs again. He remembers when he used to do great with the cold. Winter was his favourite season, Christmas and snow. Now he can’t go outside if he’s not wearing thick underwear and doubled up outfits.

Thank God he’s so skinny and no one notices. PI Parker’s already an odd one out, socialist aunt, murdered uncle, dead end job, he’s got enough strangeness without something else on top. 

If the rain lasts into tomorrow, Peter knows he’ll wake up stiff and creaking. If he’s lucky the old radiator in the corner will let out a few dusty puffs, but when’s he ever lucky these days? He’s already too stiff to get more blankets and he just had the one thin sheet when he got in. Barely had the energy to hang up his soaking wet clothes and those’ll leave a puddle in the morning, something else to clean up.

He should get some sleep. There’s clients tomorrow, and May asked him to come see her, he can’t say no to her. And, well, there’s Felicia. She doesn’t want to see him but he’s good at being unseen. He just needs to check in, know she’s doing okay.

What was it she told him? Find a nice girl and settle down? What’d she tell him if he said he didn’t think he’d live long enough to settle down? There’s a war coming, brewing up in Germany, and it’s already spilling over into America. Peter’s no fool, he hopes it won’t get worse than it is now, but he knows the only way to keep a good Nazi down is with a solid haymaker.

If everything does go to hell in a hand basket, Peter knows he’ll go with it. He’s a PI sure, a vigilante too, but there’s bigger things than the big apple. Spiderman could help a lot in a war. Granted no nut job scientists think he's a better help locked up in some underground lab getting poked and pricked and taken apart for the secret in his blood. 

Peter tries not to think about what the feds would do to him if they ever caught him. Lock him up, turn him into a science experiment, make him wish he was dead. They'll wanna know how he got this way, how long, why, why, why. And he won't have any answers for em. There's no rhyme or reason or logic, it's just how things worked out. 

He swallows hard and rolls over all the way, facing the wall, and sniffs. Before the bite these walls were an off-colour beige, distinctly brown, and now they're just grey. Peter doesn't know what happened, or why, he never got to ask questions, but he misses colours. He thought he was going blind that morning when he woke up, everything a washed out, faded out grey, and everything just too much. He ended up on the ceiling, squeezing his eyes shut and squinting through his fingers, like that'd help anything. 

Before the bite he liked red, and blue, now he wears dark colours. Black is easiest, goes with everything, including itself, but nothing else works.

And he’s tried to make em work. Put on clothes he had before the bite, ones he knew the colour of, but people’d give him funny looks. May asked if he was extra tired that morning because Peter dear, your clothes clash something awful. So that’s that on that, no more colours.

No sunshine yellow or grassy green, no more endless blue skies or crackly brown weeds.

The bite gave him strength and speed and maybe more power than one man should have, but it took a lot too. No more winter for Peter Parker, and no more colours either. Everything’s in black and white with every shade of grey in between, ‘s poetic, and sad. Sound about right for the Spiderman. 

Sometimes, when he’s swinging through the city, wind in his face, coat flapping behind him, he’ll think he catches a glimpse of colour. A red dot or a purple speck,  _something_ ,  ** _anything_** , but it’s never there when he backtracks. No matter how long he looks or how hard or how much, there's never anything there so he learned to ignore it. It’s just his brain playing tricks, so desperate for what it used to have that it fills in the blanks itself, tricks itself something awful. 

There’s no colour though. There never is and never will be anymore, and Peter needs to deal with it.

A crack of thunder shakes him down to his stiff bones and Peter fumbles his pillow over his head. Really coming down now, washing out all the rat holes, filling em up and drowning the rats maybe. Tomorrow’s gonna be miserable, might not get any legit clients, but that’s tomorrow’s tomorrow.

Tonight, he just needs to close his tired eyes and sleep. Leave the bruised ribs for the morning. Leave the puddle in the kitchen for a while. Forget about Felicia and the war, and all those responsibilities. And Just. Sleep.


	2. You hang the moon baby, I'll take the stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicia stands by her decision to break things off with Peter. They're just too different, want such different things. Doesn't mean she can't miss him though. Doesn't mean she can't miss him something awful.

There’s a spider that comes to see her every night. A sneaky little spider that hides in any little shadowy corner he can find. The spider likes to think it’s so clever, peaking at her through windows from a street away, following her when she goes out at night to make sure she's safe. Well the spider might have the shadowed corners but the cat's got the dark alleys and empty streets and experience. She's been on these streets longer than him after all, she knows the uneven pavement and overflowing dumpsters just as good as he knows the rooftops and lamp posts. 

In fact, he's out there right now. Perched on the rooftop across the street from the Black Cat and doing a good job blending into the late night drizzle. No one else would see him up there, not unless they were specifically looking for him, and unlucky for him, Felicia is. She's always got an eye out for Peter Parker these days, mostly because she's half afraid of the one she won't catch him there, checking on her.

Tonight is going to be a cold one, she can feel it in the air, and she's almost tempted to call out to him. Invite him in to get warm, have a drink to sweet those stiff bones of his, bring him back to her bed to hold those cold hands and feel those cool lips working down her throat. It'd be easy. 

“Oh sweetheart,” Felicia sighs, leaning back into Midnight. The old gal’s been through just about everything and doesn’t budge so much as a paw when Felecia lays down on her. Midnight’s belly’s warm and soft and just what Felicia needs.

Peter Parker, the Spider-Man, her beau from the wrong side of the tracks. Or the right side, from another perspective Her little newshawk turned peeper, somehow she can’t say she’s surprised. Peter always did have something gnawing away at that slick and shiny soul of his, something darker, nastier. A willingness to do the hard stuff no one else wanted to touch.

He reminds her of Ben like that. Benny and Petey, her shiny, dark boys with a deathwish. She’s got a type and it’s suicidal, figures.

Tonight she's alone in her room, surrounded by her kitties, and he's alone outside, surrounded by the clouds rolling in. They're both alone and they're both lonely, and Felicia can almost forgive him. He’s a good kid, full of so much… _much_  that it’s easy to see things his way. He was just trying to do the right thing, just trying to help out cause ain’t nobody else was lending a hand. And he’s so so sorry about her face, he never meant for that to happen, any of that with Crime Master.

He’s always so sorry, and contrite, and looks at her with those big grey eyes that make her heart squeeze tight.

Felicia  ** _wants_**  to forgive him, forget about her scratched up face and let Petey back in, but…this is better. She’s an old moll and he’s a youngster, full of life and vengeance. He’s got a whole legacy to make and she’ll just be some dead weight hanging off his coat tails.

It’s better this way, really it is. Petey’ll get over her. He thinks he loves her, he thinks he knows what love is, but Felicia knows better. Petey thinks love is soft; it’s romance and flowers and swinging all night long. Then it’s kisses and cuddles and shy little confessions in the cold before morning. He's got this idea, these _fantasies_ , and Felicia can't bring herself to tell him just how stupid they are. 

She’s gotta remind herself that he’s young, every time she thinks about Petey’s love. He’s a young man with a heart full of promise, and she’s an old cat with too much experience. She’s been down that soft, romantic trail before with Benny. She gave it a shot, for him, tried to make an honest living waiting tables, playing secretary, but it never worked. She never worked.

The Black Cat’s the only place she ever fit in right, and Benny never fit in at all. He was too jaded by then to come work with her here. Too doped up on Chinese molasses to realise what was what anymore, and it’s what got poor Benny boy killed in the end. Too much dope, not enough scope, and he’s wearing a Chicago overcoat while Felicia plays almost-widow.

“That’s where love gets ya, baby,” Felicia mutters, making kissy faces at Ivory. Pretty little kitty’s her newest gal, a sweet thing, spoilt but so sweet. Just like Petey.

She still can’t believe how young he is. How vulnerable he looked when he took off that mask for the first time. He’s not even ten whole years younger than her but there’s something about him, it’s hard to explain, makes her feel like she’s robbing the cradle. Something about that terrible dye job that always misses a few pure white hairs and the way he looks at her so shyly through his lashes.

He’s got this charm about him, so clean and good, that Felicia wants to hide him away where nobody can dirty him up. But, at the same time, she wants to make him filthy, do filthy things to him. And he’d let her, he’d  _thank_  her. Petey really is something else.

Felicia knows all it’d take is him saying “ _please Licia_ ” in that soft voice, the special one. All it’d take is one look from those big grey eyes, looking at her like she personally hung every star in the sky, and she’ll be gone.

He’d take a mile if she gave an inch, so she can’t give. Not once, not ever, because it’s better this way. Because no matter how much Petey thinks things can be different, that he can make a difference, it never changes anything. Won’t change her, as much as he tries.

They’re just…too different. She’d say they’re night and day to each other but that doesn’t fit, Petey’s just a little too dark to be the day, too jaded to pretend everything's blue skies and white clouds. So, maybe they’re as different as the night and the moon.

After all, the night’s a constant, dark shadows and bad deals in backend alleys. Nighttime's for the molls and their mobsters, folks that don’t fit right anywhere else. Nighttime's easier to move around in, less eyes peeping round the corner, less judgement bout where you're getting your scratch. Felicia’s always been a lady of the night, it’s the only thing she’s really good at. She’s a professional skirt and ain’t nothing gonna change that now.

Petey though, her little Spider, is most certainly the moon. He waxes and wanes, struggles with how far to go and what’s not far enough, but he’s never completely dark. Felicia knows he’s killed, hard not to in a business like his, but she's killed too, and for less. Some people don’t deserve nothing but a pound of lead to the face and that's just how it is. 

Maybe some of Petey’s light can brighten her up, shine down into those back alleys and make those molls look fresh and young again, but it’s too much to ask. Too much to change, too much work, and Felicia’s not ready to put in that kind of effort.

Sometimes it’s too much effort to put on her face, then cover it up with her mask. Sometimes it’s too much effort to remember why she bothers with it at all. Damn near everybody knows what happened to her, the old cat got cut, and damn near everybody knows why she's wearing that fancy new mask. Oh sure they don’t got any details, if she was really running around with the Spider-Man, if it wasn’t just something she said to Crime Master, if it wasn’t just a bad break in the biz.

Nobody knows the lead up but everybody who’s anybody knows the result.

Felicia thinks it’s kind of funny, how Petey’s life with the mask is the one she liked better. The Spider-Man always had so much more going from him than lousy Peter Parker; the power, the allure, the  _opportunities_. Felicia wanted that, the Spider-Man could get somewhere in the world, somewhere powerful and spectacular. She'd been through enough big men to know what an up and comer looked like, and Petey was it, but she threw her hat in too quick. She just saw his pretty face, those pretty grey eyes, and the blood on his hands, and let herself forget how things worked around here. 

The Spider-Man could be a big man, he could hold this whole city in one hand, but Petey never wanted that. He wants to clean it up, taken on the corruption in the coppers, fix up the dirty parts of the city and help people. He ain't in it for the scratch, and Felicia is. It's a fundamental difference between them and why they won't work. 

Still, 's funny how things work out. She was so caught in the mask, liked it so much, and now she's got a mask of her own. Her looks were all she ever really had going for her and now those are gone too. All because she came too close to loving a schmuck. 

‘s what it comes down to right? She let herself get too close, too invested, and the world sent a reminder her way just to keep everything level.

“That’s really what it gets ya,” Felicia sighs and gets up to close the window. There's a storm rolling in and she doesn't want any of the kitties getting spooked, and maybe Petey'll run along home if he can't watch her anymore. 

She's thought about...about throwing herself out the window just to let him catch her. Make up some out there excuse about someone waiting for her in the room, just so she could feel his arms around her again and rest her ear against his chest. She's not a girl that needs rescuing but she's good at pretending, and if a little fib 's what it takes to get around her own rules then that's fine right? 

Oh but she'll never do it. They're doing okay with this separation, both of em. He's slowly getting the message, sticking around less n less, and Felicia is getting back into her work. The club's doing okay, not bad, and the city's still the city. 

Someday Petey'll take her advice and find a good girl to settle down with and Felicia will still have her club. The idea of him finding some dollfaced lil thing shouldn't make her sad, but it does, he won't be hers then. He could've been, if they were just a little different, but this is how things are. He's the moon way up high and she's the nighttime down below. He's her Spider, for now, and she's just a Cat. 

 


	3. And you're like all the colours I can't see

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Parker saves people, does his damnest to save em, it's what he does now. As the Spider-Man that is. Peter Parker never really saves people, but this dame is special, different in a way that's nice. In a way that makes him wanna know more if he's being honest with himself.

Bussing always leaves him more tired than vigilantism or PI work, somehow. The big tubs of dishes are no problem, easy, no matter how high they get stacked or how far he has to carry them. Manoeuvring around the staff is easy too, spider sense keeps him from running into them even if he’s walking backwards.

Washing dishes is, well that’s repetitive and boring, the worst part about bussing easy, but it’s still not much. He’s a good busboy, Peter knows the routine, how to be efficient, but he always comes home so tired. Too tired to hang up his apron, too tired to pull his mask on proper before he goes falling out his window.

He can be too tired to do everything else, but he can never be too tired to be Spider-Man. There's too many people in this city who need him. 

Today is a bad day. Cold day, weather report says it’ll only get colder, and colder, and cold enough for sleet maybe. Winter’s coming fast, and Peter hates every second of it, and he hates that he hates it.

His coat is threadbare, doesn’t do much to cut the chill in the air, but there’s not much he can do about that. His one good coat, creaking black leather and ankle length coat, is for night work, slush and hush work. This coat is dark brown, tweed he thinks, and it belonged to his uncle Ben. There’s patches on the elbows where aunt May sewed them, saved them as long as she could, and there’s patches over the patches where Peter fixed them again.

Peter’s cold, and slow, but when a car goes swerving through a red light, he still moves quick enough to save the woman caught dead in the headlights. He’s careful, not to move too fast, not to kick the car away when it brushes too close to his foot. He's just an average joe after all, just a guy, so he doesn't roll away with her quick as a wink. He is careful to keep her pressed in close though, if another car comes careening by, he can take a hit much better than she can.

But there’s no other car, only some screaming, only hands reaching to help them up.

“T-thank you,” the lady, a real doll, says once she's back on her feet and Peter ducks his head. She’s looking at him like he’s a hero, the genuine article, and he…doesn’t know what to do with that. The Spider-Man saves people but they rarely thank him and Peter Parker never saves anybody.

“I uh-just helping out,” he mumbles, smiling quick and subtle. She’s holding out her hand, for a shake maybe, but he’s a little lost for words, and actions. She’s gorgeous, like Licia, but different. She’s not as sharp around the edges, not as sarcastic, and her face is a warm shade of grey he doesn’t see often. Her hair's a little windswept after that tumble but it looks nice on her, and hey, her clothes aren't even mussed up. He did good. 

“I’ll, I’ll be seeing ya,” Peter says before he says something else, something stupid. Ducks his head, shakes her hand quick as a wink, and then takes off walking again.

He doesn’t know why his heart is beating hard in his chest, a quick _thump-thump-thump_ that keeps him warm all the way to Johnny’s. Then it’s work and his heart calms back down. Then it’s breezing through with a “ _morning_ ” and a “ _have a good day_ ” and collecting dirty plates until his tub is jammed full. Then it’s hunching over a sink in the back and scrubbing the food off and letting em soak before he washes em again, all in time for the lunch rush of course.

The customers are rude as ever, hassling the waitresses and sneering at Peter, but that’s just work. It’s mind numbing work, busy work his aunt calls it, but it pays enough per hour. So Peter works himself exhausted, between the painted on smile and the headache he gets from those damn, buzzing lights. But, sometimes, when he gets a break to just stand still, he thinks about that woman he saved.

She was a real doll, long hair, looked soft and maybe dark? He’s not sure, the shade of grey was somewhere between dark and light, could go either way. Face was cute, straight lil nose, nice smile with two lil dimples on either side. She looked like a nice, put together doll, Peter’s glad he could help her.

Johnny’s closes ten most nights, after the last of the dinner rush’s out the door and the less savoury types start roaming the streets. Peter helps the waitresses flip the chairs up on the tables and wipes down the counter while Johnny counts out the day’s takings. And like he said, bussing doesn’t pay much but it pays enough, and Johnny’s nice enough to let Peter skip some days.

Johnny also pays in cash every day, no waiting around for the end of the week or anything like that. He’s a good guy, a good boss, and Pete’s glad to have him. And if he makes sure to stick around after closing, lounging in the back alley, dressed in black and smoking a cigarette, then that’s his business.

If he knocks out the chumps trying to jimmy the lock, then that’s still his business. Peter leaves the crooks tied up by the dumpster and smirks cause he knows the coppers won’t be around for another five-six hours. So, he tips his hat to them and climbs up onto the rooftops.

His arms feel weak from lifting tubs of wares all day and his feet hurt from standing so long but that doesn’t matter. He’s not Peter Parker, PI, right now, he’s the Spider-Man and he’s taking care of his city.

There’s always something in New York, crooks tryna shake down a copper that he gets the drop on, mobsters cleaning money uptown that he got a tip off about. Never a dull night in this place.

Tonight’s cold though, much colder than last night, but there’s no rain so Peter keeps going. He hits rooves a little harder than he should when he jumps across alleyways, but it’s fine. He gets a little sloppy laying out a chump painting a swastika on a wall but he gets his man so it’s fine. He makes a mistake and shoots out a window instead of a tire in a car chase uptown but that’s, that’s just bad luck.

Somewhere around midnight he heads over to Licia's, to check on her like he always does, and it starts raining like it always does. There's a building right across from the Cat that lets him see right into her bedroom, if she leaves the window open, and it's closed tonight. Last night it was open, tonight it's shut, and Peter tries not to let that bother him. If Licia was in trouble, well he'd'a heard about it. People talk, people love to talk, and when they're hanging off a bridge by their ankles, well they damn well _sing._

So no, Peter doesn't think there's a thing wrong with Licia. She's just, she's just making it easier for him to listen to her. She told him to leave, find a nice girl, stop messing around with her. She had to know he was still hanging around, cat like Licia didn't miss much, so she's shutting him out bit by bit. He should be grateful, but all he is, is cold. 

When he goes swinging away, swinging for once instead of running, he's just cold. 

The cold seeps into his bones, it always does, and after a couple hours, Peter finds himself huddling on a fire escape. The drizzle is persistent, never developing into a full on downpour but just enough to keep him damp and miserable. His coat, the leather trench coat that used to be Ben’s, is good at keeping the wind out but only when it’s closed right. Not much chance to keep it closed when he’s running around the city like a man possessed.

He’s been running around all night, busting heads and cleaning up the dark patches of the city, step by step, and Peter thinks he’s earned himself a rest. So, fire escape, curled in on himself, trying to light up a cig while the wind fights him.

“Oh my god!”

The match catches, burns, and dies, and Peter doesn’t even notice.

“You’re real!”

The doll from this morning is there, sticking her head out the window that leads to the fire escape. She’s in a nightgown and her hair’s up in curlers, and she’s still as gorgeous as he remembered.

“Ma’am, this ain’t. I-don’t scream!” he shushes, sticking his matches and his cigs back in his coat and...and freezing.

He should go. Jump off the rickety fire escape, shoot a web at a wall and go swinging off into the night. He doesn’t wanna cause a ruckus at three in the morning.

“What? No, no I won’t scream,” she whispers frantically, smiling so wide her dimples show. And…and he’s caught unawares. She…won’t scream? They always scream.

Every lady that’s ever seen him in this get up has screamed and hollered for the coppers, including the ones trying to shoot him dead. This is a first and Peter’ll admit, he doesn’t know what to do here.

“I can’t believe it, you’re really the Spider-Man?” this woman whispers, not minding at all when he crowds in so close they’re nearly touching. Peter only gets close because he wants to block the light, from her window, it’s ah pretty bright. Anyone looking over’d see her talking with the notorious Spider-Man and he doesn’t want to bring her any trouble now.

Though, he’s never heard anyone say “ _Spider-Man_ ” the way she just did. She says it the same way she told Peter Parker thank you, whole hearted, genuine even. Like she really means it, as though she might even like him. It’s…strange.

“I am, and I’ll be taking my leave now ma’am. Sorry for disturbing you,” he mumbles, tipping his hat and getting ready to backflip away. Out of pure necessity of course, not because he wants to impress this doll face babe or anything.

“Wait no! I mean, do you have to?” she asks and she actually grabs his coat to stop him. And his spider sense doesn’t even twinge. Not a peep, for the first time in a good long while.

He’s staring open-mouthed at her fingers curled in the leather, a darker grey now that it’s night but still warm. He can feel that warmth now, leaking away from her fingers, slipping through his shirt and resting against his side. She’s looking at him so hopeful, dark eyes big and wide, and he really wishes he could see her in colour.

She must be a vision in colour.

“Because, well it’s a cold night. You’ve been out right? I could put on some coffee, or I think I have a little whisky,” she trails off, and Peter almost _falls_ off the fire escape. She’s—she wants him to come in? Have a cuppa joe? Or some whisky?

What kinda dame is this?

“A little break won’t hurt nobody, right?” she says, leaning in close like it’s a secret, close enough to feel her breath ghosting along his mask.

And…and he wants to. He wants to take this strange gal up on her offer and take a few minutes to warm up. He won’t have her making him coffee this late, or drink her whisky, because his aunt May raised him with _manners_ , but a little company wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he could even have a smoke leaning out the window like she is now, might be easier to light up inside then puff outside?

Common sense is telling him to go, thank her but say he’s got too much to do, and leave. She’s just some dame and he’s the Spider-Man, he’s New York’s Most Wanted, he’s got a mark on his head. The coppers’ll be glad to take him in, and then there’s all the others that’re so desperate to get any kinda dirt on him.

They’d see him with this dame just once and get all kinds of ideas in their heads. They’d think he was sweet on her. They’d hurt her and for no reason. No, better to leave her alone, just go back out into the cold and keep doing thankless work. He’s used to it, it makes sense, and this doesn’t.

Best thing to do with strange situations is get away from them. Run and never look back.

He’ll forget about this dame in a few days, maybe a couple weeks, those dimples really were adorable and she’s warm. He hardly gets anything warm these days. His apartment/office never heats up properly and the landlord doesn’t give a damn. Johnny’s is warm, always warm, but Peter never gets to appreciate that.

Inside this dame’s apartment looks warm, what he can see at least. There's a lamp by the window, lighting her up in a wash of pale grey, and there's a couch behind her that looks mighty comfy. Not a thing like the old beat up one he's got in his office. He can even peep a kitchen off to the side that's just as cozy as everything else about this gal. 

“Just a few minutes, and some water if you can spare it,” Peter says, ignoring the giddy flip his heart does when this doll’s face lights right up.

She’s smiling cheek to cheek and her eyes are two whole shades lighter, and Peter feels like he’s flying through the air after releasing a web.

“Sure can, you come right in Mr Spider-Man. I’m Mary Jane, and I wanna thank you for all the good work you’ve been doing,” she says, moving aside just enough for him to climb through, letting go of his coat too. And Peter shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t.

He climbs through, careful not to scuff her windowsill or move too unnatural, no joints bending too far the wrong way, no jerking around like a puppet doll.

“Thank you, Miss Mary Jane, that-that means a lot,” he stammers, clearing his throat, uncomfortable. He’s never had anyone thank him for what he does and he almost doesn’t know how to answer.

All of this is new, out of place. Standing in a warm room, tiny but homey, thanking a strange dame with the sweetest smile he’s ever seen. He doesn’t know what to do with himself and just stands there awkwardly in all his gangly spider glory.

“You have a seat there, I’ll get your water, or it’s really no bother to make some coffee. Do you take it black?” she asks, bustling off into the kitchen not five steps away. Peter watches her, stares really, she moves so confidently, as though she entertains wanted men every night of the week. There’s not a bit of hesitation in her.

“You really don’t have to,” he mumbles as he sits on the couch she pointed to. He almost doesn’t want to, afraid he’ll track dirt on the light grey cushions. He must’ve hit the ground at lease once tonight. And he might leave a wet spot, water's not too good for cloth like this, not that he'd know really, his own couch was ruined long before he got it. 

“You risk your life for this city, to keep us safe and never get so much as a thanks. The _least_ I can do is make you some _coffee_ ,” Mary Jane says, voice going hard, and Peter’s head snaps up. She’s staring right at him, eyes narrowed just a touch, but she doesn’t look mad. She looks…looks determined. Like she won’t take no for an answer, either he takes her hospitality or there’ll be consequences.

She’ll force a kindness onto him if she has to and—and…and Peter can’t remember the last time someone cared like that. He’s a stranger to her, a complete stranger, but here she is at three in the morning, bound and determined to make him a warm drink.

Peter thinks he’d cry if he wasn’t so shocked.

“Th-thanks, I—no one’s ever,” he trips all over his words like the klutz he used to be, and Peter shuts his trap before he makes a fool of himself.

“So you’ll have to black then?” she says, almost teasing, and he nods, a sharp jerk of his head. And she gives him such a soft smile that Peter feels tears prick his eyes anyway. She reminds him of aunt May, back before, well before. When she'd look at little Pete following uncle Ben around the house, wearing one of Ben's shirts, the spitting image of the man. Ben'd grab Pete up in his arms sometimes, lifting him high, and Pete'd laugh giddy and delighted, 'n May'd just watch with a soft little smile on her face. 

Peter never thought he'd see a smile like that again, specially not at him.

“Alright, you stay right there.”

And he does. While she makes the coffee and comes to share a cup with him, hers has cream and sugar and she sits in the armchair on the other side of the coffee table, but they drink together. She makes a joke about all the black and he tells her it’s better for the blood, teasing.

Then, she makes him some bacon and eggs. Because he can’t just have coffee, or head back out on an empty stomach. Then she tells him to have a rest on the couch, brings out some pillows and a sheet for him, and tells him she won’t peak under his mask.

And he shouldn’t stay, he shouldn’t trust her.

But he does. And he’s also late to work the next day, but he’s warm and has a belly full of late night breakfast food, and a standing invitation to visit Miss Mary Jane whenever he wants.

She’ll leave the window open.


	4. Our love's tender and young but baby, it's strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary Jane's the kinda gal that likes being wined and dined, she likes compliments and pretty knickknacks. She likes a beau that can show her a good time and take her fancy places. She likes all that, but she loves Peter Parker.

When she was young, her mother would tell her to take care of her looks, her looks were everything. She’d say it every day, sitting at her dresser, using a big powder puff to cover up her black eyes and bruised cheeks. She’d never flinch, never squint, and always smile when she was done.

Mary Jane remembers that, she doesn’t think she could ever forget it. The peeling white paint of the dresser, flaking away when she traced little patterns with her fingers. The smell of her mother’s favourite perfume, very strong to cover up, well Mary Jane doesn’t know but it was strong. She has a bottle of that perfume in her own dresser now, half finished, her mother’s, and she never uses it.

She remembers how the lights would catch her mother’s hair, red like Mary Jane’s, but not as vibrant or long. She’d comb her hair out after she fixed her face, using a soft brush Mary Jane liked to run her hands over. Her mother would put on her face everyday while little Mary Jane watched and her mother would tell her that her looks mattered most. Not the man she married, or the things he did, not the way people whispered and gossiped, or what they said. No, all of it was se-con-dary to her looks.

Always take care of her looks.

Mary Jane thinks her mother looked beautiful laying in her casket. Maybe not in the weeks leading up to her death, when she was sicker’n a dog and delirious, but at least she was a vision in death. Her hair was spread out around her head, loose like it never was when she was alive, and her skin didn't have that sickly, waxy shine. If she squinted and pretended not to see the casket or the flowers or the way her lips were stretched too thing, she could think her mother was just asleep and resting.

Her mother took care of looks all her life and at least that paid off in the end.

She's...mostly the same because her looks are what keep people coming around. Harry Osborn bought her pretty things because he thought it was only right a pretty gal like her be surrounded by other pretty things, and oh wouldn’t she go steady with him? Flash Thompson thought she was gorgeous too, always coming around the department store when he knew she was getting off. He'd take her to a diner for dinner then clubs for dancing, he wasn't even half bad, and she liked the way he'd smile so confident when he had her on his arm.

Flash and Harry are the constants, the nicer ones. They take her out dancing and buy her nice things, they complement her and steal kisses at her front door, but they never come inside. She won’t let them, and they don’t push.

Then there’s Bobby and James and Sam and Tom and Frankie and Paul and Mark and so many others. They’re the ones who get just one date from her, a dance if they’re lucky, then she shuts the door on all of them. They’re nice, not as nice as Flash or Harry, but none of those boys are anywhere near what she wants.

Her mother told her to keep her looks, guard them well, because that’s how she’d find herself a good man. Mary Jane thinks her mother was a fool, a poor, beaten down woman with nothing but her looks left, and she’ll never let herself be that.

She doesn’t think Peter would either.

Peter’s nice, and good, and has a heart so big she’s afraid of the day it bursts and poor Peter bleeds out dry. Well, she's afraid of Peter bleeding out in general really but there's different contexts, y'know? He’s uh…in a dangerous line of work and they both know it. He’s already lost people because of it, because the world ain’t nice and kind the way he is and there are people out there that wanna keep it that way.

Mary Jane never wanted to get involved in any rackets, she’s no moll, but she’s involved anyway because she can’t leave Peter. She loves him, she really does love him, and it’s terrifying.

How hard she fell, how fast. At first she thought she was just falling in love with the Spider-Man. The mysterious hero that was helping folks all over the city, the one she caught out on her fire escape trying to have a smoke. She thought he looked so...so lonely and small that night. Curled in on himself like a dead spider in a corner. She hadn't meant to say anything to him, or invite him inside, she wasn't that kind of girl but. But he-she-he looked so small. 

She brought him inside, fed him, let him sleep, and told him to come back if he got the chance. Honestly, she never thought he'd take her up on it, but he did. Coming around early enough that she was never asleep yet, having dinner with her, bringing things with him sometimes. Back then he never took off his mask, just pulled it up enough to eat and smile and laugh with her. She should've been so interested in finding out what he looked like, it should've been eating her up inside, but it never did. 

She got to see his hands instead, his scarred up hands that were so soft when he held hers to dance in her tiny living room. She got to hear about his black and white, monochrome world, where everything was grey and washed out. And she got to tell him about every colour he couldn't see, her hair was red, fall leaf red, and her eyes were blue, the kinda blue you'd see on a hazy summer day. 

Then later, when he felt right, he pulled off that mask and showed her his face, told her his name. Peter Parker, the guy that saved her from the car months ago, the one she'd been seeing around but never could say what was familiar about him. 

And now she’s sitting up, waiting up for him. Like her mother used to sit up for her father. Waiting for him at their rickety kitchen table, twisting her fingers and staring at the clock. Mary Jane can’t remember how many times she came out, sleepy eyed and wondering why her mommy didn’t tuck her in yet, to find her mother there.

When she was young, Mary Jane thought it was a game, when she was older, she thought it was pathetic, and now? Now she’s doing the same damn thing for a man she should never have let get so close.

“Peter, you—” Mary Jane starts and stops. Her voice is too loud in her tiny kitchen, cuts into the silence awkwardly and grates on her frazzled nerves. She’s already wound up, a hard pit of hot anxiety’s churning in her belly, and her head’s pounding as she sits there.

She sound take a tonic and go to bed. There’s no use worrying herself sick in the kitchen, no use staying up so late there’ll be ugly bags under her eyes in the morning. If she goes to sleep right now, she can still get a few winks in before it’s time to start her day. Peter will get in when he gets in, he might not even be coming here after his…after his work tonight.

He still has his office with the old pull out cot, and she knows if he’s tired enough, he’ll pass out cold on the floor. She’s come home to him slumped under the window before, snoring fit to wake the dead, covered in half-healed bruises and smears of blood. Once he knocked over her lamp and slept on the glass, didn't even realise until she woke him up.

Pete will understand if she goes to bed and doesn't wait for him. 

Mary Jane doesn’t get up.

Over the radio a report came in last minute about that Rhino fella, the one they’re saying is some unholy mix of man and animal, breaking into the Federal Reserve. Peter was supposed to be home for dinner tonight but Mary Jane knows he went after that Rhino creature. Bank heists were…money was too tight to let a bank robber get away.

God but, it’s two in the morning now and that was hours ago. The radio stations are all signed off and there’s no way to know what else is going on. Not unless she picks up the phone and starts making calls like a crazy lady. Call May to find out if Peter was there, call Betty to find out if she heard anything, living as close to the bank as she was.

And so many excuses. Never letting anyone know why she was calling, where Peter was if he wasn’t with them. So no, she can’t call and she can’t get up, and the pit in her stomach burns hot, curling iron hot. She feels like she’s melting from the inside out.

Her hands are clasped tight on the kitchen table, perfectly rounded off nails digging into the skin of her knuckles. She can feel the pain, knows it’ll leave uncomfortable marks, but she can’t bring herself to unclasp her hands. She feels like she’s holding a midnight vigil, like she’s praying to a God she doesn’t believe in to bring back the man she shouldn’t love.

If she breaks those clasped hands, if she stops praying, Peter might not come home, so Mary Jane can’t—she won’t.

An hour later, by the clock on the wall, lit up by a slim piece of streetlight falling through the curtains, something thumps in the bedroom. _Someone_ thumps in the bedroom, crawling through the window. Mary Jane’s up and out of her seat so quick the chair falls over with a clatter. She doesn’t care though, not what her downstairs neighbour will say or whether she scuffed the tile.

She bangs her way into the bedroom, heart pounding in her throat, worry burning its way through her gut and onto the floor.

For a second that worry paints the world red, in broad strokes and a messy hand. There’s red streaked in her lace curtains, it’s splotched on her floor, it’s spattered across her bedspread. And it’s covering her Peter.

“Mary Jane?” Peter croaks, soft voiced and exhausted, and Mary Jane snaps the bedroom light on.

There’s no red. No blood.

Peter’s slumped on the floor, one arm curled protectively around his stomach, the other steadying him against the floor. His mask is off, thrown onto the bed, and Mary Jane tries to remember to add it the hand wash pile of laundry. She doesn’t think she will though because she’s completely focused on hurrying over to Peter and dropping next to him.

There’s a cut across his cheekbone, deep and puckered, the skin around it is swollen and irritated but it looks clean enough. Then there’s a splotchy bruise peaking over the collar of his shirt. Someone tried to choke him again. God she can almost make out the individual marks, the finger prints, as she peals the collar away.

Four perfect fingers, big, thick fingers, and a half imprinted thumb. They’re a red so deep they’re almost bloody, and at the very edges, they’re dark purple, like an outline. Like they’re saying “ _Look at me! Look at_ **_us_ ** _!”._

Mary Jane wants them to shut their damn mouths. Shut up. Just _shut_ **_up!_**

“Rough night, Pete?” she teases, light, so light, because if she doesn’t keep this light, she’ll break down sobbing and Pete doesn’t need that right now. He needs her help. He needs her to keep it together.

So she does. She gets her hands under his arms and lifts, gently-gently, she’s not sure what’s broken after all. Pete comes with her, too easy, too light, he’s not trusting her with any of his weight but at least he trusts her to keep him upright. The arm around his belly doesn’t fall away and he hisses sharp when he takes a step with her.

“Something like that,” he jokes, voice quivery and weak. She pretends not to see the tears collecting in those pretty grey eyes.

She leads him to the bed instead, step by step, gets him sat down, and starts getting him out of his suit. Undoes the clasps and the buttons, unlaces his boots and pulls his shirt out of his pants. She doesn’t undress him, because Peter’s—he can do it himself, but he appreciates the help. Then she leaves him there, sitting on the bed, struggling to kick off his shoes, while she goes to get bandages and ice.

In the kitchen, Mary Jane grabs the sink and holds on so tight, she feels like she’ll go tumbling off into space if she doesn’t hold onto something. She’s seen Peter beat bloody before, what he does isn’t safe, it’s not safe at all. Sometimes he comes home fine, not a scratch on him, and he’ll grab her up in a kiss that leaves her weak at the knees. Sometimes he comes home with a split lip and cheeky grin and she’ll kiss him until he winces and pulls away with a pout.

Sometimes he comes home and Mary Jane feels her whole world shake. She’ll feel like her mother, sitting at her dresser with a painted on smile and shaking hands.

But, but Mary Jane is not her mother and Peter sure as hell isn’t her father. They’re two wholly different people, people who really do love each other. Peter doesn’t stay out late and come home roughed up because he wants to get back at her for anything. He comes home beat to hell because he could take it, because some poor schmuck couldn’t and Peter can.

He comes home to her because he trusts her. He comes home because he _loves_ her.

The bruises around his neck are less defined by the time she gets back with the bandages and antiseptic. They’re blotchy, less like fingers and closer to one big bruise, still angry red at the centre though.

He’s down to his long underwear when Mary Jane gets in close, wiping the blood off his cheek before it stains and sticks. He doesn’t wince when she cleans out the cut and tapes it shut, doesn’t flinch when she traces her fingers feather light over the ring around his neck. He does girt his teeth and suck a hard breath when she feels his stomach, but he stays still as she wraps it up.

The ribs aren’t broken, just bruised, a dark blue-purple-red mess, worse than the one around his throat. Mary Jane has to stop herself before she starts wondering how he got that one, if he was thrown into a wall or if the Rhino thing hit him so hard. She won’t let herself dwell on it, she refuses.

When she’s done, when Pete’s wrapped up as tight as he can handle, he takes her hands in his. He brings her finger to his lips, kisses them, each finger, one at a time. Then the palms, and flips over for the backs. His lips are chapped, rough skin catching against hers, but Mary Jane doesn’t mind. His breath is warm and she studies him while he takes his time kissing her hands. 

Tonight was hard, a tough fight. She doesn't know if he stopped the crook but she won't ask, he's not here for that. He's here to bring himself back down from whatever building he threw himself off of tonight. He's here to remember that he's got something in this world, someone in his corner back home that he can rely on even with things get sticky. 

Once, he told her about a Miss Felicia Hardy, owner of the Black Cat swingers club. Peter told her that he might'a loved Miss Hardy, might'a loved her something terrible. She was the first one to know about the Spider-Man and not go running for the hills, first one to-to understand. Peter told her because he didn't want Mary Jane hearing for nobody else, he wanted her to know about Felicia because he trusted her. 

He said, if they were gonna get serious, he didn't want secrets like that sitting under them waiting to cause trouble. 

Now Peter's here, in her home, kissing her hands slow and careful, delicate. Like she's the one that got the tar beat of her and is covered up in cheap bandages from the corner store. And he might'a never said it but Mary Jane knows Pete never went to Miss Hardy when he was beat like this, he never let her see this side of the gig. He thought he loved her but he didn't, not if he could keep this from her. 

Because Peter's-he...he's so small right now. Sitting on her bed, bigger'n her, looking out of place in this cozy lil space, and looking like lost lil kid. 

Mary Jane feels her heart do a sick flip in her chest, thinking about Pete going home alone when he was like this before. About him curling up in bed, aching and hurting, with no one there to lend him a hand or ask how he was. He kisses her wrists and she’s sure he can feel her stuttering heartbeat there, because he lingers, lips to her pulse. Then, he wraps his arms around her waist and pulls in her close, shunts her in between his spread legs and hugs her close.

She can feel his breath on her stomach, through her top, and she can feel the wet spot just above it, and Mary Jane doesn’t say a word. She rests a hand on his bowed back, fingers slipping into the dips of bone, so familiar. One hand on his back, and the other in his hair, petting slow and gentle, carding through tangles and sweat damp patches.

She wants to say something, anything. Something to make him feel less… _less_ , but there’s nothing. Her brain’s blank, can’t think of anything except the tears pricking her own eyes. She thought he wasn’t coming home. She thought he was hurt, and he is hurt. He’s bruised and cut up and he’s clutching her skirt so tight, holding onto it like he’ll go floating away if he lets go.

Pete’s crying into her tummy and Mary Jane can’t think of a single thing to say so she doesn’t say anything. She just pets his hair, the tips are so black against her hand, but she can see white roots poking through. Pure white, soft white, like fresh snow in the quiet hours before the city wakes up proper.

White like the crackling, crumbling paint on her mother’s dresser.

Always take care of her looks. Well what does she look like now? Crying because the world is hard and unfair and cruel, because a man like Peter deserves so much better than what it gives him. Are her eyes bloodshot from staying up so late? Is her hair a mess, falling out of its careful twist?

There’s smudges of antiseptic on her sleeves, staining the material, and she’ll have to wash this soon. And Peter’s leaving a spot on her top, one that’s growing by the second, her wrinkled, frumpy-from-a-day-of-work top. She must look like a mess right now, crying in her bedroom at three in the morning.

But she doesn’t care. Mary Jane doesn’t give a damn what she looks like right now, because it doesn’t matter. Her looks don’t matter, and she loves Peter.

"I love you Peter Parker," she whispers into the quiet of the bedroom. And just like in her kitchen the words cut through the silence, force their way into it, hack themselves a nice cushy space in it, but they don't feel awkward. They feel right. 

And some other gal, the gal she was only a few months ago, might've needed to hear those words back. How could she know they were real if she didn't hear them back, huh? What kinda chump would just say something like that and not expect to hear it back? 

Some other gal might'a taken offence, but Mary Jane doesn't, not anymore. She doesn't need Peter to choke the words out, doesn't need him to reel back n croak 'em before he's ready. 

Mary Jane knows he loves her. Can feel it in the way he's trembling against her, in the shuddering breath against her belly. Peter's never let anyone else ever see this side of the Spider-Man, not his aunt, not his mentor, not even Miss Hardy. Peter only lets her see because he loves her, and he trusts her, and he loves her so so much. 

"I love you," she sniffs, petting his hair. She loves him. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special shout out to SYML's album "Hurt For Me" that I listened to while writing the entire last chapter. Did it influence me? Quite possibly.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm always up for chatting, hmu on tumblr @darkeecofreak or tweeter @Darke_Eco_Freak. I'd love to gush about Noir with you.


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